This is a lot longer than I had planned, both the story and the chapter. I am thinking there might be one, or even two, more chapters of this to go. Maybe. It depends how I feel. But I already know which songs I am going to use if I do.

Annie's Song

She didn't know what had taken her there, apart from her feet. It was just where she always went, after a bad day in the office, a bad case, a bad date. She knew there would always be alcohol in the cupboard and a DVD in the reader. And she knew there would always be a shoulder to cry on, metaphorically, and a friend to talk to. Of course, he wouldn't be home yet – she had left before him and walked a lot faster than he would have, unless he took a cab. And since it was with him that everything had gone wrong with, his shoulder was probably not the one she wanted to cry on, literally. But there was no-one else. She had nobody else she could turn to, nobody she wanted to turn to. She just wanted to sit in his arms, watch a film and forget the whole evening. Forget the way their bodies fit so well together as they kept in time with the music, forget how soft his voice was as he sang, forget how good he tasted. She pounded her fist against his door, but even before her hand connected with the wood she knew he wasn't there. She didn't know how she knew, she could just feel his absence. She exhaled and turned around, leaning back and sliding down the door, bringing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. The rational, sensible part of her was saying that she had to leave, before he returned, but the part of her that wanted to express her emotions told her to stay – after all, she was the one who yelled at him, for something that she wanted to happen. She didn't even know why she had reacted in the way she did. She buried her face in her knees and groaned. He had such an ability to confuse her, to mess with her mind. Just his presence could throw her off-kilter.

He knew she wasn't there as soon as he arrived outside her building. It was like she was a magnet and he was a chunk of iron. She was the sun and he was the earth, just orbiting her. It was like the gravitational field pulled him towards her, and he could feel it when ever he was in her presence. But he couldn't feel it. Not as he stood outside, looking up at the dark windows, not as he climbed the stairs and certainly not as he pounded on the door. He loved it at her place. It always smelt like her, fruity and spicy, like apples and cinnamon and ginger and peaches. He couldn't think of anything that smelt so good, anyone who smelt so good. She smelt like warm summer nights and crisp winter mornings, like petrichor and fir trees. He just had to go and ruin it, didn't he? He just had to be impulsive. He slid down the wall of the corridor outside of her apartment and placed his head in his hands. She was his best friend. His beautiful, exotic, assassin best friend. And he had feelings for her. God, what was wrong with him? Normal people don't have feelings for their best friends, do they? No, no they do not. That's just weird. Particularly when those feelings are unrequited. He slapped his palm against his forehead and groaned. "Fool, DiNozzo!" He grumbled to himself. How could he have been so stupid? He knew that she didn't feel the same way, but he just had to go and kiss her. And it felt really good. She tasted good, as good as she smelt, and the way their lips just…fit. He wasn't exaggerating when he said it was the best kiss.

At 0450h she still hadn't gotten home and Tony gave up. He stood and descended the stairs to the ground floor, walking out into the pale light of dawn. It wasn't a particularly long walk to his apartment from hers, it only took about half an hour, but the half an hour gave him time to clear his head. The whole night, as he sat on he door step, his mind had been cloudy, it had been impossible to think about anything but her lips on his, the warm tickle of her breath and the gentle pressure of her arms around his neck. But outside, with his feet treading the familiar path, an even rhythm, it gave him something to focus on – putting one foot in front of the other and keeping going. He nodded to the couple who lived in the apartment below him as they left for work and he entered his building. It didn't take him long to make his way up the two flights of stairs, but he stopped in his tracks when he saw her, curled up on the floor. He let a smile tug at his mouth before he remembered why she was there, why she had mascara stains marring her beautiful face and pain contorting her delicate features as she slept. It was his fault. He was the one who had kissed her, he was the one who had followed his gut and not his brain. He had been impulsive, not thought about any of the consequences. He had been thinking about things he would regret not doing, not the things he would regret doing. He sighed. She didn't look like she had gotten much sleep last night. He sighed and pulled his phone out, pressing speed dial one. He waited for Gibbs to pick up and started immediately in a hushed voice, still standing over her sleeping body in the corridor outside of his apartment. "Hey, Boss. Uh, sorry to call so early, but Ziva's sick, like too sick to come in to work today, so she's gonna stay round mine today and I'm gonna take care of her."

"What was she doing there in the first place, DiNozzo?" Gibbs voice crackled down the phone, the implication clear in his voice – Rule 12.

"She slept on my couch last night." He lied.

"If I find out that her illness is just a hangover, you are gonna…"

"No, Boss, it's not a hangover. I think it's a stomach bug." Tony could hear Gibbs sigh over the line and he bit his lip.

"Fine. Take care of her." He hung up and Tony looked down at her small body, the way her breathing moved her whole body captivated him. He leaned over her and unlocked the door before crouching down and awkwardly maneuvered her into his arms. She stirred slightly as he stood up and he froze, relaxing as she settled down. He used her feet to push the door open, continually insuring that she didn't wake, and carried her through into his bedroom, laying her down on his single. He slipped her stilettos off and tucked her in, brushing her hair out of her face and smiling sadly at her expression. He had hurt her. On more than one occasion. First Jeanne, then Jenny, now this. He never meant to hurt her. It was never his intention. But yet it seemed to keep happening. He backed out of the room and headed towards his bathroom. After a night on the floor of a corridor, he was in dire need of a shower.

She was warm. She had fallen asleep on the cold floor outside his apartment, she remembered that, so why was she now wrapped up in very soft, warm sheets, on a comfortable mattress. There was something familiar about it. The smell. It smelt like Tony, warm and recognizable, comforting. She let her eyes flicker open to the white room and smiled briefly at the sight. Tony's apartment. And then she remembered why she had been there in the first place, why she had been outside on the floor. He had kissed her. And then she had yelled at him for his troubles. It wasn't a bad kiss, either. Not that she expected it to be – he was Tony, after all – but it still surprised her. It wasn't the first time she had felt his lips on her own, but this time it was real, not just some elaborate game of make-believe in order to convince anyone watching from the outside that they were married assassins. She brushed her fingertips across her lips, remembering the previous night, the feelings that splintered through her body at his touch. She had spent her entire time in Israel trying to block those emotions, trying to forget about the feelings she harboured for her colleague and friend. That was why she had reconciled with Michael. Her father liked Michael, approved of him. Again, it dawned upon her that he, too, was a colleague. Maybe it was just because her work was her life that seemed to make it that the only men she ever felt truly attracted to were those who she worked with. It also occurred to her that all the men she found attracted to could, in one way or another, be considered dangerous. But it was more than just attraction with Tony; there was a connection between them, one that she had spent years trying to deny. She'd never felt that way before, not with anyone. Not Michael, or Roy. Just Tony's presence could ignite emotions in her that others had tried – and failed – to evoke from her. She could hear the shower running and she ran a hand over her face, swinging her legs out of the bed and groaning when she realized what she was wearing. Abby had chosen the skimpy black dress out of her undercover wardrobe. She walked over to the double doors set into the wall and opened them up, smiling at Tony's large array of clothes. He had more clothes than her. He probably had more clothes than Abby. And they were all organized by designer. She grabbed the first shirt she could, removing it from the hanger and pulling it on, blushing when she realized it was longer than the little black dress. She buttoned up the top half and gathered the two sides, tying them in a knot and bringing the length back up to her waist. Satisfied with her makeshift clothing, she padded barefoot through to Tony's kitchen, grabbing a green apple from the fruit bowl on the central counter before making her way into the living room. The sound of running water still emanated from the bathroom and she sighed, running a hand through her messy hair. She scanned the CD shelf for something quiet to put on whilst she waited for him to finish in the shower, knowing that she needed something other than silence to distract her from the conversation that needed to be had. She, after debating over Presley or Costello, decided upon radio and she turned it on quietly.

You fill up my senses like a night in the forest,
like the mountains in springtime, like a walk in the rain,
like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean.
You fill up my senses, come fill me again.

The words described her perfectly and he had to stifle a scoff at the irony of it as he leant against the doorframe watching her. He could hear the crunch of the apple she was eating and he couldn't help the smile that spread across his face at his shirt, gathered roughly around her waist, and her tight black skirt hugging her thighs as she swayed gently to the music. Her shoulders were slightly hunched and he could tell, without even needing to see her face, that she was unhappy.

Nothing specific alerted her to his presence, just a feeling. A tingling on the back of her neck. She turned around slowly. He stood, lounging against the wall with a small smile on his face, a damp towel hung around his neck.

Come let me love you, let me give my life to you,
let me drown in your laughter, let me die in your arms,
let me lay down beside you, let me always be with you.
Come let me love you, come love me again.

He walked over to her slowly, breaking eye contact and keeping his gaze fixed securely to the ground. The apple fell out of her hand and he yanked the towel from where it was draped across her shoulders. He took her hands in his and pulled her into the centre of the room. Neither looked at the other as they danced, both wearing solemn expressions. He twisted his hands in hers so they were palm to palm, interlocking his fingers with hers. She moved closer to him, her brain telling her body to stop and her body disobeying every order. She buried her face into his chest and his chin moved to sit atop her head. He wanted to start singing along, but he remembered what happened the last time he sang, and, although he wouldn't mind a repeat of the kiss, he didn't want the argument again.

You fill up my senses like a night in the forest,
like the mountains in springtime, like a walk in the rain,
like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean.
You fill up my senses, come fill me again.

He let a ragged breath out and pressed his cheek to the crown of her head, wrapping his arms around her for a brief moment. "I'm sorry. I should not have kissed you." He whispered as he let go of her, his eyes fixed intently upon a spot on the wall. "You were right, what we had was good and I should have respected your wish to keep it that way."

"Hello, it is half six in the morning and have we got a morning of music for you?! That was only the first of our songs of the seventies for the morning, there will be more from where that comes from as we progress with the day…"

"Tony, we are going to be late." She stared at the radio, moving away from him to try and remove the temptation.

"Nope. We're not going in today."

"What?"

"I called Gibbs. We're not going in today."

"And how did you convince him to clear that?"

"I, uh…I told him you were sick and I was going to look after you." He mumbled, taking a peek at her angry expression. "Look, you were asleep on the floor and you looked tired and I guess we need to talk about last night at some point and there were very limited options at the time."

"So, you told Gibbs that I was ill, you kidnapped me whilst I was sleeping and then you just expect me to be fine with this?"

"Uh, no. There was no kidnapping, I just moved you from what I know from experience to be a very uncomfortable floor to what I know from experience to be a very comfortable bed. And I didn't know what you would think." He shrugged. "I just…sleeping on the floor is uncomfortable and not good for your back, not to mention the fact that it was cold out there."

"Thank you, Tony." She nodded and turned away. "I think we need to talk."

The song is Annie's Song by John Denver. Oh, how I love the music of the seventies. Really, truly the best decade for modern music. The 50s, 60s and 80s were okay, but by mid 90s things started going down hill, and by 2000, well, music hit a cliff and never recovered from the fall. There have been a couple of almost decent things in the past few years, but really, nothing great.